He grappled the pyro from dazed Vincennes, sprang back, fired a warning blast that smashed the telescreen.
"Don't move, anybody!" he ordered. "Nolan—take their guns!"
Nolan threw questions to the winds, sped to obey. He found a business-like little heat pencil in the inner pockets of the chunky man, a pearl-handled burlesque of the service pyro in the gaudy gemmed holster Lieutenant Brie dangled from his belt. Nothing else—and his search was thorough.
"All set," he reported.
"Good enough. Searle—are there heat suits in this room?"
The chunky man looked stricken. He nodded. "In that locker," he said dizzily, pointing to the wall.
"Get them out, Nolan. Give one to every man and put one on yourself. Those outside will take their chances."
Nolan raced to comply. The stillness outside the door was menacing. While he was dragging the suits out, throwing them at the men, while they were putting them on, the man called Searle was staring at the masquerader with dawning comprehension.
"What are you going to do?" he whispered. "Are you—"
The man in the heat suit laughed sharply. "Get your suit on," he said. "You know what I'm going to do. All set?" Every man was garbed, helmets down. "Ten seconds to seal them. One, two, three—"